


dance with me

by lipsstainedbloodred



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, dancing to Elvis, this is so soft you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: the one where they dance to "can't help falling in love"





	dance with me

**Author's Note:**

> "Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? For I can't help falling in love with you." - Elvis Presley, Can't Help Falling in Love

If one were to compare the vastness of Crowley’s record collection to Aziraphale’s book collection, it would be found that Crowley would win by a landslide. This is because Aziraphale is a discerning collector where Crowley is a bit of, well, a hoarder. That is not to say that Crowley does not have a good collection of records, he does. He has a tendency to lose them though. Unlike Aziraphale who has his collection catalogued, filed, and memorized, Crowley simply tosses his records in unmarked boxes in whatever room of his flat happens to be handy. 

He’s also shit at remembering the records he liked.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale is sitting primly at the edge of Crowley’s couch, glass of wine in hand, “the last time we had this wine, dear?”

Crowley is taking up the rest of the couch, sprawled out with one leg on the floor and the other in Aziraphale’s lap. He takes a drink of wine and pretends to think about it. “Mm, no.”

“It was in America, I think,” Aziraphale muses. He cups his free hand over Crowley’s scrawny ankle bone and drags his thumb over it absently. It tickles faintly. “Some time in the late sixties I believe. You still had that ridiculous haircut.”

Crowley scowls and jerks his foot. “That hair was fashionable at the time.”

“It was before that dreadful mustache, at least.”

“Hey.”

Aziraphale hums and sips his wine. “I had a flat there, for a little while. I bought this wine and you brought a record. It was nice. Do you remember? You asked me to dance.”

_ Oh. _ Crowley does remember. Vaguely, anyway, the way one remembers a dream or a night of being absolutely sloshed. “Maybe.” He narrows his eyes, “Why?”

“There was a song that played that night and it was absolutely lovely.” Aziraphale scoots his fingers up Crowley’s leg, just a little, pushing up the dark material of his trousers. “I’d like to hear it again. Maybe this time we could…” He trails off, face pink.

It was Elvis that had been playing that night, Crowley recalls. His first live one. It was rather one of Crowley’s favorite records, though he had absolutely no idea where he’d stored it.

“I could look it up on my phone,” Crowley offers, “clever the way humans have found a way to get all that music in one place.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, but the turn of his mouth says otherwise. “I did rather like that record, I had hoped-”

“Yes, yes, alright.” Crowley sets down his wine glass and pulls himself up to standing. “But if it takes me all night to find it…”

“Oh I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.” Aziraphale settles deeper into the couch, smile dancing on his lips and in his eyes. Bastard.

Crowley waves a hand at him vaguely, heading off in the direction of his storage room. He opens the door and flicks on the light switch to towering rows of boxes, covered in dust and cobwebs. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of rot and must. “Right then,” He says.

-

When Crowley returns triumphant, dust on the knees of his trousers and record in hand, he finds Aziraphale reading a book, their glasses of wine forgotten. 

Aziraphale looks up. “You really should label your boxes, you were gone for ages.” 

“You could have helped.” Crowley grumbles.

“How would I have been any help?” Aziraphale asks, “I don’t even remember the name of the album.”

Crowley sets up the record player and the pleasant sounds of Elvis’ “Blue Suede Shoes” fills the room. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale picks up his wine glass, his book gone for the time being, “yes, this is nice.”

Crowley throws himself back onto the couch, both of his feet ending up in Aziraphale’s lap. He picks his wine glass back up and closes his eyes. “Rather.”

Aziraphale squeezes his ankle. “Would you like-”

“Not to this one,” Crowley drinks the rest of his wine, sits up enough to pour out another, “I don’t want to go too fast for you, angel.”

“Oh hush.”

They finish their wine and Crowley gets up to turn the record over. He sits this time with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, humming softly as Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair. He’s blessedly buzzed, not quite drunk, and at some point he lost his glasses though he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Half way through “In the Ghetto” Aziraphale makes a sad noise and Crowley looks up at him. Crowley reaches up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “I know,” He says.

“I forgot about this one,” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s palm, “it’s a sad one.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sits up, “I can turn it off.”

“No. The one I want to hear is coming up soon.”

“Alright,” He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s jaw, “I’m just going to put away the wine glasses then.”

“Of course.”

Crowley gathers their glasses and the empty wine bottle and goes into the kitchen. If the wine bottle ends up in the recycling bin neither of them will mention it. Crowley rinses out their glasses and places them in the rack to dry. When he turns around Aziraphale is already waiting for him in the doorway.

Aziraphale reaches out a hand.

It’s odd. After six thousand years Crowley didn’t think it was possible to fall further in love, but apparently he could. He falls here, again, for Aziraphale, and takes him by the hand. Aziraphale’s lips taste like wine and honey, and Crowley can’t stop himself from darting his tongue out for a better taste.

Aziraphale pulls back and presses their foreheads together. “Teach me to dance, Crowley?”

“Okay,” Crowley says and pushes them back into the living room.

“Suspicious Minds” fades out but Crowley can barely hear the starting chords of the next song over the beating of his own heart. He guides Aziraphale’s hand up to his shoulder and tucks his own around the angel’s waist.

Their steps are clumsy, at first, little more than them leaning against each other and swaying.

_ ‘Take my hand, take my whole life, too. For I can’t help falling in love with you.’ _

Aziraphale sighs shakily against Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley holds him a little tighter. When the song fades out their still pressed tight together, Aziraphale’s face tucked against Crowley’s neck.

“Again,” Aziraphale requests.

It’s a small miracle, resetting the song without touching the record player, and not what one would consider to be an approved miracle, but it’s not as if anyone is watching them anymore. The song begins again and Aziraphale makes a small, happy noise as they continue to sway around the living room. 

Crowley presses his lips into Aziraphale’s hair, and smiles.


End file.
